


Far Beneath the Bitter Snows

by Slytherclaw (Geminia905)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geminia905/pseuds/Slytherclaw
Summary: When the Deadwood Five are hired by Al to solve a series of murders involving one of his lesser known sidebusinesses, rent boys, Clayton is forced to revisit a world he believed he'd left behind.Worse still, the murders seem eerily familiar to those committed by a man Clayton killed in self-defense twelve years earlier.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 32
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this story is fairly ambitious for me. While I have a rough outline, I have no idea how long this will be or where it may lead, so some important info first:
> 
> 1\. The rating, warnings, and tags may change as the story progresses.
> 
> 2\. This story deals with the subject of underage prostitution (no younger than 16) and all the inherent consent issues associated with it. While I don't intend to be graphic, if this is in any way triggering for you, please proceed with caution. I will try to warn when I feel it is warranted, but as always, caveat lector.
> 
> 3\. As with my other stories in this universe, there may be references to past child abuse, both physical and psychological/emotional. Again, I will try to warn if anything graphic comes up.
> 
> Okay, now that that's out of the way, this story takes place in my prime!universe, two weeks after the story 'Pumpkin Pie'.
> 
> Also, fair warning: My angst muses are currently firmly in control, so buckle up, because it's going to be a bumpy ride. ;)
> 
> Title from 'The Rose' by Bette Midler

_ Thursday, November 14, 1878 _

Reverend Matthew Mason had dreamed of many things in his life:

When he was little, he dreamed of living in a big house, where he and his younger siblings could have their own rooms and their own beds, and there would always be enough food to fill their bellies.

When he was a teenager, he dreamed of a beautiful man with grey eyes who needed him and who he would protect from all dangers, even Death itself. This one had actually come true, though not until decades later.

A little less than two months ago, he dreamed of a dealer, who offered him amazing powers. This dream had also turned out to be true - and, coincidentally, allowed him to fulfill the last part of that previous dream.

Never in his wildest dreams, though, had he ever been jealous of a  _ horse _ .

Yet, here he sat on the fence that surrounded the newly finished stables behind the Parsonage, watching the man he loved reverently brushing the sole inhabitant of the stables: his black mustang, Malachi, occasionally stopping to offer praise and kiss the broad nose affectionately.

' _ That horse has gotten more sugar in the last twenty minutes than I have in a month. _ '

"Whatcha broodin' about there, Rev'rend?" The combination of the unexpected voice in his ear and the accompanying slap to his back nearly sent Matthew tumbling off of the fence into the recently created pasture. He was fairly certain his stomach  _ had _ hit the ground, and he wouldn't be surprised if his heart was currently orbiting the moon, but he was too busy trying to steady his breathing to care at the moment. He did manage to turn and glare at the grinning man standing just behind his left shoulder.

"Aloysius Fogg," a feminine voice came from a few feet behind, trying to sound stern, but there was a faint trace of humor underlying the words. "Stop trying to give the poor Reverend a heart attack."

"Aw. It ain't my fault, Miss Miriam. I wasn't tryin' to be sneaky. Hmm. I wonder what could've possibly distracted ya, Rev'rend." He looked past Matthew to the stables and a mischievous glint came into his eye. "Ah. Looks like Clayton's too busy brushin' that horse's tail to let you pound his, hmm?"

Matthew's face felt like it was on fire and he could only gape indignantly. Fortunately, others weren't so disadvantaged.

A closed parasol suddenly appeared in his periphery, as it whacked hard into Aloysius' arm. "You apologize right now, Aloysius Fog." The parasol hit repeatedly as she spoke. "That's no way to be talking about the Reverend or Clayton and especially not outdoors where anyone could be listening."

"Okay. Okay." Aloysius ducked and danced away from the smaller woman's well-aimed assault, barely managing to avoid a couple whacks. "I'm sorry, Rev'rend. That was crass and ill-mannered of me."

Satisfied, Miriam put down her parasol.

"I was simply concerned because blue balls can be a bitch and I wouldn't want your sermons to suffer," Aly threw in, cheekily, once he was sure he was out of Miriam's range.

"Aly," Miriam growled, warningly, looked down at her battered parasol, then just sighed. "Go away."

"Yes'm." Aly tipped his hat, gave her an insouciant wink, and strolled away. "See you later, Rev'rend!" He waved cheerily over his shoulder.

"Sorry about him, honey," Miriam said, walking over and putting a hand on Matthew's back. "If anyone would know about blue balls, it's him. He hasn't been able to fuck his  _ harem _ for three days now."

"Miriam!" Matthew stared at her in mock outrage. "Such coarse language!"

"What can I say? That man brings out the worst in me." She gave Matthew a wink. "Speaking of...  _ Is _ there a problem with you and Clayton?"

"No," Matthew said quickly, then sighed. "Not really. It's just..." He looked back over to where Clayton was preparing to lead the horse inside. "I sat here for half-an-hour and watched him give that horse a ton of physical affection without a single bit of hesitation or self-consciousness and it was a beautiful sight to behold."

"But...?"

"I just don't know what I'm doing wrong, Miss Miriam. Two weeks ago, he initiated a kiss for the first time and it seemed like things were moving forward between us, but since his birthday, he's not tried to kiss me a single time, so I've held back, as well. 

"I finally tried to initiate a kiss last night and he actually bolted from the room, saying he suddenly remembered he had something he had to get from the hardware store - which had been closed for an hour!" Matthew ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don't want to push him into anything if he's had second thoughts about us, but I  _ thought _ he wanted this as much as I do."

"Oh, honey." Miriam patted his back. "I've seen the way he looks at you and I don't think you have anything to worry about there. I think you're just too close to the situation to really see the big picture." He looked at her in puzzlement, and she just smiled sympathetically and patted his back once more. "Up until two months ago, he'd been surviving on his own since he was sixteen years old - most likely even longer, given what we know of his family life. 

"The last person to truly love him 'left' him when he was three or four and never came back. Being in love must be a  _ very _ scary new experience for him." Her smile warmed. "Neither of you is doing anything  _ wrong _ . You're just dealing with more old baggage than most people do when starting a new relationship." She stopped and considered her next words carefully. "I think for now, you should simply hold back and let him initiate anything intimate. I understand that you probably have...physical needs that you'd like to fulfill--"

"No--well, yes, but honestly,  _ that _ is the least of my worries," Matthew said, quickly, his cheeks feeling hot once more. "I'd love a physical relationship, but I could go forever without that if Clayton didn't want to. It's just that I  _ like _ kissing him and thought he did, too, until last night."

"I'm sure it'll work out, Reverend. You just need to steel yourself and sit down with Clayton to do the one thing that men hate to do." She gave him one last sympathetic pat on the back, then headed back to the house, continuing over her shoulder, "Talk about your feelings."

* * *

"I'm sure you'll have some company soon, but for now you've got this whole place to yourself. Enjoy it while you can." Clayton laughed, standing outside of Malachi's stall and affectionately stroking the mustang's head.

He'd forgotten how great it was to simply spend time with a horse - not borrowing or renting a mount for a day or two on the trail, where getting attached was not an option, but truly being able to emotionally connect with such a majestic beast.

As awful as life had been with his mother - and father, when he was drinking - he could always find safety and unconditional love with the horses on their ranch (until his mother eventually sold them all, anyway). 

He always turned to horses for comfort and companionship when something (or someone) was troubling him and he recognized that he was falling back on old habits now and he knew exactly what was wrong, even if he was loath to admit it to himself.

_ Matthew. _

Just thinking the name sent a flutter through his heart. He was hopelessly in love; he couldn't deny it if he tried.

Matthew was the sweetest man he'd ever known (with the possible exception of his older brother, but he couldn't remember Malachi well enough to make an accurate comparison), with a big heart and, as much as he tried to hide it, a brain to match. While he was nowhere as naive as he pretended to be, there was still a touch of innocence about the Preacher's worldview that warmed Clayton's heart to see.

So how selfish must Clayton be to risk tarnishing all of that goodness for his own base desires?

Isn't it bad enough he had seduced a  _ man _ of the cloth into a relationship that went against the very ideals of the religion he cherished and preached every Sunday?

Sure, Matthew had explained the difference between faith and religion and how Man had corrupted and changed God's word over the years to suit their own hatred and bigotry, but Mama had always said a man snared by the Devil would say anything to justify their downfall.

As much as Malachi's letter had revealed about their mother's motives, it couldn't just erase the fear and shame of being told repeatedly your whole childhood that you were the Devil's spawn sent to be mankind's downfall.

Maybe that had been an exaggeration, but here he was, a male whore turned gun for hire, luring a preacher into his web of sin and vice, so maybe she was right, in a way, the whole time.

This was wrong in so many ways, but God help him, he was too selfish to give Matthew up. Yet, every time they so much as kissed, Clayton felt like some of the ever-present filth that he could never wash away was being transferred onto Matthew's bright soul. How much worse would it be if they went farther?

He wasn't naive, he knew that eventually Matthew was going to want more out of their relationship and Clayton was certain that when that time came there'd be no way for Matthew to not  _ see _ the stains left behind by the countless men who'd already sullied his body before he even knew there was a person he'd want to remain unsoiled for.

So here he stood, seeking the familiar, unconditional love of an animal, when he'd rather be in the warm, loving arms of a man he didn't and could never deserve.

"You plannin' to move into the stall with him, too?"

Clayton lifted his head from where it was leaning against the horse's neck and rolled his eyes at Aloysius. "Shouldn't you be at the Gem about now or have the ladies finally gotten bored of your so-called charm?"

It was meant as a joke, but by the way Aloysius' eyes narrowed, it seemed he'd hit a nerve.

"Well, if they have, I'm sure they'll be happy to help out a certain preacher who's gettin' sick and tired of playing second fiddle to a fuckin' horse!" 

Clayton flinched and Aly seemed to realize there was more sharpness behind his words than was warranted by the situation. "Sorry, Clay, but really, if you want to keep him, you'd better start giving him some  _ proper _ attention - and I don't mean the kind you're givin' that mustang." He seemed to consider his words, wrinkling his nose, before turning to leave. "At least I hope it's not the same kind."

Clay couldn't respond; no words could possibly make it past the bile filling his throat. He was only peripherally aware of Aloysius' exit, as he leaned heavy against the stall door, trying to breathe through his nose and quell the rising of his gorge, and prayed that his heart wasn't going to burst, it was beating so hard.

If he didn't want to lose Matthew, he was going to have to give him what he wanted, but if he did, he was certain he would lose him anyway. Could he really take that risk? What other choice did he have?

Malachi nudged him in the back, suddenly, seemingly attempting to regain his attention, before finally draping his head over Clayton's shoulder, with a soft nicker. Instinctively, Clayton turned and buried his face in the horse's mane, taking comfort from the horse's gentle nuzzling and gradually felt the worst of his nausea subsiding. "What am I going to do, Kai?" he whispered into the horse's neck, only receiving a low whiney in response.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter update than I'd like. Unfortunately, allergies are kicking my butt, but I wanted to get at least one more part out this weekend.

Supper was an unusually quiet affair. 

Clayton was used to being the silent one at the table, but tonight there was very little chatter aside from the occasional request to pass the salt or potatoes.

He refused to look Matthew's way, but could feel the weight of the older man's gaze land on him several times during the meal.

Aloysius must still be put out, because he wasn't cracking his usual jokes at Clayton and Matthew's expense.

Miriam, who, for some strange reason, had brought her parasol to the table with her, spent the meal watching each of them in turn. Clayton could sense her concern each time her eyes landed on him and he found himself ducking away from her gaze each time, even though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable and sure enough, "Clayton, honey, are you feeling alright? You look awfully tired."

"I'm fine, Ms. Miriam. Just didn't get much sleep last night is all." He said, carefully avoiding looking her in the eye. It wasn't a lie, he  _ hadn't _ slept well last night - or for the better part of the last two weeks. 

There was no way he could tell them that, though, because neither Matthew nor Miriam would leave him alone until he told them what was bothering him - and he wasn't about to tell them he was dreaming every night of his time as a whore; especially since most of the dreams revolved around  _ Him _ : his last trick and his first kill. He hadn't thought of that sick fuck in over a decade, but here he was suddenly invading his dreams and reminding him of  _ why _ he'd been targeted in the first place.

Miriam waited a few moments, but eventually seemed to realize he wasn't going to elaborate. She smiled kindly at him, reaching over to lightly pat the back of his hand. "Tell you what, sugar, I was already planning to brew up some of Curly's special nighttime tea, so I'll just make a bit extra and you can help yourself to a cup before bed, if you like."

Clayton forced a smile and gave a noncommittal shrug. The tea was tempting, but there was something else he had to do at bedtime. His eyes surreptitiously traveled from Aly, who was looking at him with a cocked eyebrow, to Matthew, who quickly dropped his eyes to his plate, apparently not wanting to be caught staring.

He began to feel nauseated once more and quickly pushed his plate away. "I think I'm done," he said, rising quickly.

"You've still got half a plate, Clayton," Miriam said, her expression worried once more, but she seemed to understand this wasn't the time to push. "Should I put it in the oven for later?"

Clayton simply nodded, then rushed up to his room, opened the window and took several deep breaths, trying to calm the roiling in his stomach.

' _ Get a grip, Sharpe. It's just sex. You're thirty years old, he's not going to be surprised that you're not a virgin. Keep your fool mouth shut and there's no way he will know. _ '

He had just shut the window when he heard pounding coming from the front of the house - someone knocking on the door? Instinctively, he reached for his guns, only to curse when he realized they weren't on his hips.

"Dammit, Miriam," he muttered. Miriam refused to allow them to wear holsters at the dinner table and in his desperation to leave the table, he had completely forgotten to pick them up.

He made his way cautiously to the stairs and stopped halfway down to listen to the voices coming from the mudroom. One voice was particularly distinctive and the word 'Boss' drifted up to Clayton more than once.

' _ Johnny, for once in your life you are actually useful. _ ' Clayton felt the tension leave him so quickly he was left dizzy and had to sit down. 

Al had a job for them. 

Finally, Clayton could concentrate on something else for a while and set his worries over his and Matthew's relationship and his sordid past aside for a day or two.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no way I can recapture Brian's Swearengen and I've never seen Deadwood, so let's just say this is a watered-down version of the RL son of a bitch, with a bit of unnecessary language thrown in for good measure. ;)
> 
> The Angst Train is shifting into high gear and we're already veering off the outline. *sigh*

Johnny had apparently stopped by Arabella's house first, as she was waiting for them when they reached the Gem. She fell in back with Miriam and Clayton could hear them whispering about the time of night.

Clayton could understand their bemusement; he was feeling the same. This must be something big, because Al normally insisted on meeting with them during normal business hours. How a pimp could even conceive of the concept of 'normal business hours' was beyond Clayton, but then Swearengen was just egotistical enough to think the whole world should revolve around his personal schedule, anyway.

As they entered the abnormally quiet saloon, Johnny grabbed five glasses and a bottle that Dan set out on the bar for him and led them up to Al's office.

"Evenin', folks," Dan greeted as they passed. Clayton didn't miss the intense glare that Aly shot the barkeep's way, or the poorly hidden look of discomfort on Dan's face as the bounty hunter kept walking with no further acknowledgement.

"Is it just me or did winter come early to Deadwood?" Clayton jumped and shivered slightly, as Matthew's whisper was accompanied by warm breath tickling his ear, before glancing at his partner in confusion. Matthew nodded toward Aly. "That glare wasn't just frosty, it was downright glacial."

Clayton nodded in agreement, before whispering back, "I wonder what happened?"

"Dunno, but Miriam said Aly hasn't seen his trio in at least three days, so it's probably got something to do with that."

Clayton remembered Aly's reaction to his earlier teasing and winced. "Yeah. Could be."

They finally came to Al's office and Johnny led them inside, where Al was sitting with his back to them. As Johnny moved to set down the glasses, Swearengen swiveled his chair around, glaring at the nervous man and shouted, "It's about fucking time!"

Johnny fumbled the glasses, but managed to not drop anything. "Sorry, Boss, Mrs. Whitlock and her husband were...busy and I had to wait, so that made me late getting to the Parsonage and--"

"I didn't ask for a fucking excuse. Just put down the fucking bottle and get out until I call you. I don't have time for this shit."

Johnny hastily put down the glasses and bottle and rushed to leave the room, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.

"Well," Al began, pausing in annoyance as Johnny slammed the door in his haste to leave. "Please extend my most sincere apologies to your husband for pulling you away from your womanly duties, Mrs. Whitlock." He said, snidely, either not noticing or not caring that both women were now glaring balefully at him. "Stop standing around and take a fucking seat." He gestured impatiently to the chairs in front of his desk.

As Clayton claimed a chair, he was peripherally aware of Aly crossing his arms and remaining standing in a clear show of defiance. A glance at Swearengen showed it had not gone unnoticed, though he didn't remark on it.

"First of all, I am offering twice the usual fee for this job to be handled quickly and with the  _ utmost _ discretion." He looked at each of them in turn, pointing a finger for emphasis, and it took all of Clayton's willpower not to reach out and grab the digit as it turned in his direction. "You're not to talk about this to a fucking soul in town outside of me, my staff, and the sheriff. Understood?" He waited until they'd all agreed (well, Aly grunted noncommittally, but it seemed to do).

"All right. One of my, let's call them  _ side _ businesses, is in trouble. There's a camp to the west of town, about half-a-mile from the treaty boundary." He pulled out a hand-drawn map and passed it over to Matthew.

"I've never heard of a camp out there; especially one so far from town," Matthew said, once he'd looked at the map.

"Why do you think I'm expecting you to keep quiet about it, Reverend?  _ No one _ fucking knows about it, except for the kind of customers who  _ pay _ to find out about it."

"And what kind of customers would those be?" Clayton asked, attempting to keep his face neutral, but a lead weight had dropped into his stomach, as a suspicion formed in his mind.

"The kind with tastes similar to that which you and the good Reverend seem to share." Swearengen smirked. "So, I'm sure you can understand, better than anyone, the importance of discretion."

' _ Better than anyone. _ ' Even though he was sure there was no way Swearengen could know about his past, the words were enough to nearly bring back his earlier panic attack. Fortunately, years of perfecting a poker face and professional demeanor when dealing with snakes like Al won out and he was able to retain his outwardly calm appearance.

"Wait, I don't think I understand--" Matthew was looking between him and Al with what appeared to be genuine confusion, but one could never be sure.

"Oh, for God's sake, Reverend, he's saying it's a camp full of rent boys," Aly snapped.

"What? Oh. OH!" Matthew's eyes widened comically and he pulled out his crucifix and began fidgeting with it.

' _ Ah. Just a bit slow on the uptake tonight, huh, Matty? _ ' Clayton thought and found himself strangely comforted by his partner's antics. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

"Now that the Reverend is up to speed," Al continued, impatiently. "Over the last two weeks, five whores have been murdered - all from my camp; the last one just a couple hours ago."

"What?"

"Five?"

"How has word of five murders not gotten around town?"

Clayton, Al and Aly waited silently for the others to stop talking over each other.

"Do you really think this is the type of thing that would be talked about or even written up in the papers?" Al scoffed. "Even if I weren't so good at keeping my business discreet?"

"How could it not?" Miriam asked, appalled. 

"Because no one  _ wants _ to hear about it," Clayton said numbly. "Because no one cares what happens to a male whore."

" _ I _ care," Miriam said, heatedly, and Arabella and Matthew agreed. 

That declaration was enough to make Clayton think that just maybe things would be okay and old wounds might start to heal.

"I mean, think about it Clayton, just because it's only these rent boys today, doesn't mean it won't be someone else tomorrow." Arabella's words cut through him like a knife and Miriam and Matthew's immediate agreement seemed to twist it even deeper.

No healing. Just new wounds. ' _ Same as always, you idiot. Stop hoping for something better than you deserve. _ '

"A very real threat, Mrs. Whitlock. The last two bodies have been found closer to town than the rest. After the one was found four days ago, I took measures to ensure the safety of the girls here in the Gem, just in case." He looked at Aly. "I apologize, Mr. Fogg, for not handling the situation better in your case. Unfortunately, there were some investors visiting and it would've been impolitic to risk exposing  _ why _ the girls are currently being reserved only for  _ special _ clients."

"So, exactly how does one become one of these ' _ special _ clients'?" Aly asked, his frostiness thawing by a couple degrees, but still evident.

"Find this fucking killer and put a bullet between his eyes and you will be at the top of the fucking list."

"How can you be so sure this is all being done by one man?" Matthew asked.

"Because all of these men were gutted and had their fucking dicks cut off. How many killers do you think would kill in the exact same fucking way?"

The world seemed to go white before Clayton's eyes, followed by flashes of memory: a bloody knife, a struggle, a bullet hole between two startled, wickedly twinkling eyes, a head bobbing in a fast-moving current. 

' _ There's no way. He's dead. It can't be. _ '

*******************************

Matthew felt sick to his stomach. What those poor men must've gone through. How could anyone be so depraved? How could anyone do that to another human being?

' _ No one cares what happens to a male whore. _ '

He'd been as shocked as Miriam and Bella when Clayton had pronounced so dispassionately that these men's lives didn't matter. Selling your body to survive may not be the most respectable profession, but it didn't make their lives meaningless.

And it sure as hell didn't give anyone the right to...commit such depravity against them.

He could see that both Miriam and Bella were similarly discomfited by Al's words. Aly wasn't showing much emotion, but that was typical for the retired bounty hunter.

And Clayton... He was hesitant to even glance at the younger man. He loved Clayton with all his heart, but if he was still unmoved after this...? Matthew wasn't sure what he would do.

Finally, steeling himself, Matthew looked over at Clayton and was instantly concerned. The gunslinger's face had lost nearly all of its color and he looked on the verge of throwing up, or hyperventilating, or both. 

This was a man who'd cut the heads off of two corpses without breaking a sweat; surely Al's words wouldn't affect him  _ this _ adversely.

Hurrying over, he knelt beside his partner, reaching out to touch his face. "Clayton? Are you alright?" It was then that he realized Clayton was muttering something under his breath. He couldn't understand what the younger man was saying at first, but finally he caught three words that nearly knocked him on his ass.

"I killed him."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains: 
> 
> Violence, but nothing overly graphic.  
> Rather frank introspection from a male prostitute that alludes to underage activity, but nothing graphic and the character is eighteen.

_ Saturday, May 4, 1867 (late evening) _ _   
_ _ Denver, Colorado Territory _

Thomas Martin was many things, but he was no fool. Fortunately, this trick, like so many others, was clearly underestimating him.

He'd been turning tricks for more than two years now. While his introduction to the profession had happened without his consent, leaving him lost in a haze of shame and despair, he had gradually figured out how to turn the tables on his 'clients' and make the most of a shitty situation.

One of the first things he learned was that the baby face he had previously considered a curse was actually a blessing in disguise. Ever since he hit his teens, the baby fat in his cheeks, combined with his waifish physique and an underwhelming growth spurt, had given him the appearance of a boy at least two to three years younger than his actual age (he tried his damnedest not to think of what that meant for the men who used him as a sixteen year old).

Men who think they are dealing with a child of fourteen rather than a young man of sixteen or seventeen, seemed to constantly make the wrong presumptions: he was naive and innocent (despite having multiple men's cocks up his ass on a nightly basis; idiots); he had no means of self-defense (boy were they in for a surprise there); he couldn't hold his drink.

The last was the most common (and where his current trick had royally fucked up). There were an unsurprising number of tricks who were more than happy to fill a whore up with alcohol, get their jollies while the poor kid was passed out cold, and sneak out without paying (or worse, robbing them of what little they'd already made that night). It was one of the biggest risks for whores with no pimp or partner standing guard.

He knew how to play this game and if the asshole tried to stiff him in the end, he was going to be one sorry son of a bitch.

He giggled softly, hanging onto the man's side and pretending to stumble drunkenly, as they made their way through the dark alleys that led to the low-rent rat trap Thomas currently called home. The trick was stiff as a board - and not in the way he should be if he wanted to accomplish anything tonight - and he kept looking over his shoulder, apparently fearing being followed.

Thomas had to admit it was a valid worry. Not only was what they were doing illegal and likely to get them both thrown in jail (or worse), not to mention the hit this fancy fop's reputation would take if word got out, but muggers were also known to prowl the same back alleys as (or even partner with) the local rent boys.

Finally, they reached the tiny shed-turned-flophouse and Thomas stumbled to the door, opening it and clumsily lighting the small lamp by the door, before pulling the trick inside. 

As soon as the door closed, the trick set down the carpet bag he'd been carrying around all night, pulled Thomas against him, and began swaying, as though dancing to a song only he could hear.

Thomas played along, letting his head rest against the man's chest as hands moved in soothing circles up and down his spine, before moving up to caress the back of his head and neck. Even without actually being drunk, Thomas found himself involuntarily relaxing under the ministrations; his eyes closed of their own volition and he felt like he was floating across the floor towards the awaiting bed.

He was surprised at how difficult it was to fight the lethargy the man's caresses were inducing and must've lost the battle temporarily at some point, because he startled awake as his now half-nude body landed on the not-so-soft sagging mattress on his bed; the man's hands now working to remove his pants. ' _ Damn, this asshole is good. _ ' If he'd truly been drunk, he'd surely have been out cold at this point.

Thomas carefully kept himself still, watching the man from under his eyelids. If the guy got off on fucking a sleeping body, he wasn't going to ruin his fun, but he wasn't going to let the guy get away with anything too weird or let him rip him off, either.

When the man had removed the last of Thomas' clothing, he stood up, seemingly wanting to admire his work, so Thomas closed his eyes and waited for the fucking to begin. ' _ C'mon, let's get this over with already. _ '

Thomas waited for several long moments, but the man did not climb onto the bed, so he risked another peek, only to find the guy moving away from his carpet bag, still fully clothed, toward the bed, something in his hand glittering in the faint lamplight. 

It took a moment longer than it should've for Thomas to realize the danger, as the man knelt on the bed between his legs. There was the faintest prick of sharp pain just as he lashed out with his foot to kick the guy off the bed. A long burning trail of fire erupted from just above his groin to his left hip, but he was sure it wasn't as bad of a wound as the son of a bitch had hoped.

He was vaguely aware of the sound of a knife ricocheting off the door, as the guy fell off the bed, landing with a loud thump and groan, but he was too busy scrambling up the bed to pay them much mind.

_ "Always keep a gun under your pillow, kid. In your line of work, you can never be too careful. Lots of nut jobs in this world." _ The first (and only) trick to ever see him as more than an object to fuck had taught him a lot in the two weeks they traveled together, including how to fight dirty, but this had been one of the two most important lessons.

His attacker was on his feet faster than Thomas could've predicted, his blazing, wicked eyes shooting to the pillow where Thomas was frantically reaching with his right hand. Immediately, the guy scrambled to reach the pillow before Thomas and Thomas had to concede that he would probably lose this race.

Which was fine, since his left hand had already found the hilt of his second gun, just off the side of the mattress, hidden by some properly arranged folds in his blanket.

The other most important lesson he'd been taught was going to save his life tonight.  _ "Never be a one-trick pony, boy. Guns under pillows aren't exactly a well-kept secret, that's why you always keep a spare." _

He brought the gun up, the movement of his arm catching his assailant's attention just in time for their eyes to meet as Thomas aimed between the son of a bitch's eyes and pulled the trigger.

He saw the blood spray. He saw the light leave those wicked eyes. He heard the dull thud of the body hitting the floor.

"I killed him." He saw his life coming full circle and would laugh if it weren't so damn painfully ironic.

After two years on the run, wanted for murder, Amos Kinsley had just killed another human being for the first time.


	5. Chapter 5

_ "I killed him." _

' _ Fuck. _ ' Matthew dared to cast a quick glance at the others in the room. All he saw was confusion and worry on his companions' faces, so he was certain no one else had heard those three damning words, but he needed to get Clayton away from Swearengen before things took a turn for the worst.

"Sorry, Clay, I should've listened to you," he whispered, purposely making his voice a bit too loud. He turned to Al, giving his best sheepish look. "I apologize, Mr. Swearengen. Clayton had been feeling poorly all day and really didn't want to come along, but I know how much you value his input and he hadn't thrown up in at least an hour..." He was aware that his friends were now more confused than ever, but trusted them to play along.

Al threw his hands up between them and began making shooing motions. "Say no more Reverend. Just get him out of my office."

"I'm really sorry," he apologized again, reaching down to pull Clayton to his feet. "I'm sure a little fresh air--"

" _GO!_ "

He was tempted to pick Clayton up in a bridal carry, but his finely honed sense of self-preservation reminded him that if Clayton snapped out of whatever state he was currently in and found himself in such a position in this saloon, there'd be hell to pay, so he settled for bending down and wrapping the smaller man's arm around his neck and awkwardly shuffling their way out of the office and down past the bar, ignoring Dan and Johnny's curious looks.

Once they were on the street and he saw no one in sight, he decided to risk Clayton's wrath and pulled him up into his arms, carrying him quickly toward the church. ' _ Sanctuary, _ ' he thought, desperately. ' _ Even Deadwood has to honor Sanctuary. _ ' He refused to think of the pitiful state the church had been in when he arrived in town.

They were within feet of the door when the previously still body in his arms began moving and shifting. He pulled Clayton closer to his body, in an attempt to secure his hold.

"What the hell?" Clayton began wriggling and squirming. "Matty, what are--Put me down!" Hands began to push at his chest.

"Shh. We're almost to the church. Just a few more steps and I'll let you down once we're inside."

"The church? Why are we--? No. Let me down  _ now _ !" Clayton pushed harder against his chest and Matthew could feel his grip loosening. With a huff of annoyance, he managed to adjust his hold and tossed the smaller man over his shoulder like a burlap sack. "Hey!"

"I said, 'Shh.'" Matthew reached up to lightly swat Clayton's upturned backside, just as they reached the door. He fumbled with opening the door, as he tried to maintain a secure hold on the gunslinger, but eventually got it open, walked in, and deposited Clayton unceremoniously onto the last pew.

Clayton sprawled on the seat, glaring up at Matthew, one hand still holding his hat to his head. "What the hell, Matty?"

"I could ask you the same, Clay," he retorted, trying to keep his composure. "' _ I killed him. _ ' Sound familiar?" He watched as the glare melted into confusion, followed by realization and dawning horror. "We're in Swearengen's office, discussing a murder, and you mutter that under your breath. Do you know how that sounds? Thank the Lord only I heard you." He crossed his arms, attempting to be stern, but the sight of Clayton's face paling and his eyes frantically searching for escape nearly broke his heart. "Clay,  _ please _ . Tell me what's going on."

The pleading tone seemed to break through Clayton's rising panic and his eyes finally locked on Matthew's own. With a sigh of resignation, Clayton slumped back on the pew, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.

"Twelve years ago, in Denver," he began, his voice detached and nearly monotone. "There were several murders just like the ones here - all rent boys, all mutilated. I'd been in town for a few weeks, but hadn't heard about it, because no one talks about that kind of thing."

"' _ Because no one cares what happens to a male whore. _ '" Matthew began to feel sick as he repeated Clayton's words from before. A new suspicion was growing in his mind, and with it the realization that what he'd taken as a cold, uncaring statement, may have simply been a statement spoken with the cold, cruel knowledge of firsthand experience.

"Exactly." Clayton sighed. "The son of a bitch was good, I'll give him that. Left me with a pretty nasty scar to remember him by." Matthew paled as he remembered the scar he had tried so hard to not stare at while taking care of a catatonic Clayton nearly two months prior. 

"So, I returned the favor with a bullet hole between his eyes." Clayton finally met Matthew's eyes, giving a hollow laugh. "My first kill. I was wanted for murder, but that asshole was my first kill."

"Clayton, I--My God, why didn't you tell me?" He started to reach for the other man, but Clayton bolted up from his seat, his eyes once more seeming to search for an escape route.

"Tell you? How was I supposed to tell you something like this?" Clayton's voice was pitched higher than normal and he sounded as though he were on the edge of hysteria, as he gave another hollow laugh. "Maybe I should've told Aly. I'm sure he'd have loved to give you the good news. 'Hey, Rever'nd, guess what? Not only are you courtin' a man, but a whore to boot!' I'm sure you'd have been thrilled."

"Clayton..."

"I'm sure Miriam would've been real proud, too, and there's no way Bella would've been at all scandalized--"

"Clayton, stop!" Matthew moved forward and grabbed the other man by his upper arms, pulling him into a rough hug. He reached up and removed Clayton's hat, dropping it carefully onto the pew, so he could lay his cheek atop the smaller man's head. "Sweetheart, I don't care about any of that. All I care about is  _ you _ . I wish to God you had never found your way into such a dangerous situation, but it was simply one stepping stone in the path that led you here: to this town; to my arms." He dropped a kiss into the soft hair beneath his cheek.

Clayton finally began to relax in his arms, but a moment later some of the tension returned. "What about the others?" The words were spoken against his chest, muffling the sound slightly, but he could still make them out.

"I know they'd feel the same way, and I do think you should tell them at some point, but if you're not comfortable doing so now, you don't have to."

Clayton pulled back a bit, his eyes searching Matthew's face. The Reverend couldn't say for sure what he was looking for, but he must've found it, because he eventually nodded and asked, "How can we not tell them, though? There has to be some connection somewhere."

"It does seem too strange to be a coincidence." Matthew gave him an apologetic smile, before asking, "You said it was your first kill. Are you  _ sure _ he was dead."

"Positive. If the bullet between his eyes hadn't done the trick, the decapitation that followed surely would've."

"Decapi--You were  _ already _ cutting the heads off corpses at eighteen?!"

" _ No _ !" Clayton drew the word out into several syllables, giving Matthew an affronted look. "The doctor who stitched me up did it. Well," he continued, a bit sheepishly, "he made it a lesson, but  _ he _ was the one who did the actual cutting! It was years before I tried it myself."

"' _ He made it a lesson? _ '" Matthew could only stand and shake his head for a few moments. "Well, I suppose I should be glad you didn't pick it up on your own."

"The asshole was rich and in town to meet with some big shots. Doc thought it best the guy not be identified until I had a chance to heal enough to get out of town. We drug his corpse out by the river, the Doc carved it up to look like another of the guy's victims, then threw his dick and head into the river. 

"He figured it'd just look like the killer was changing up his game and since the law didn't really care that someone was targeting whores, there was little chance it'd be seriously looked at, at least until the guy was reported missing, which would take a few days."

"And the lesson...?"

"Well, he was doing it anyway, he figured I might as well learn in case there ever came a day it would be a useful skill for me to have. One such day, as you might recall, turned out to be the day we met." He turned worried eyes towards the door. "Anyway, we're getting sidetracked and the others could be back any minute."

"Okay, here's what we'll do." He reached out, took Clayton's chin in hand, and turned his head so their eyes met once more. "We'll just say that you were working in Denver a while back, when murders exactly like these were happening. You happened to cross paths with the guy and by God's grace were able to put a bullet in his brain before he could finish with his last intended victim." He cupped the younger man's face, running his thumbs soothingly across his cheekbones. "Every word of that is true. The fact you were also the intended victim isn't really relevant and doesn't need to be said."

"Okay." Clayton closed his eyes, brought his hands up to cover Matthew's and took a couple deep, calming breaths. "Thanks, Matty."

"You're welcome. And Clayton?" He waited for grey eyes to once more meet his own. "I love  _ you _ , the man you are today; never forget that. Nothing in your past matters to me beyond the fact it helped shape and create the man I love."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this chapter is mostly filler.
> 
> My muses are very eager and excited to share their ideas and plans for later in the story, but I'm having trouble convincing them we have to _get there_ first.

Clayton tried to take solace in Matthew's words of comfort and assurance; he may have even managed to muster a smile for the older man's sake. Masks he'd grown accustomed to over the last decade-and-a-half slid neatly into place, allowing him to appear calm and composed to the outside world. On the inside, however, he felt like he was coming undone at the seams.

Somewhere, deep inside, the part of him that would always be Amos, the boy constantly pining for someone to love him, was jumping up and down, singing and crying with joy that Matthew had said those three magic words:  _ 'I love you.' _

A louder, more wounded voice was determinedly trying to drown out that feeling of relief and unbridled happiness, as Thomas, the boy who'd been born from a new, more insidious form of betrayal cried out for him to remember where believing in others and seeking love had gotten them. 

Images filled his mind of the kindly couple in the beaten down prairie schooner who picked him up in his darkest hour, promising a new life and a new family, and he tried to pull himself away before it turned to drugged debauchery, forced solicitation, and the loss of a single remaining spark of innocence that even his mother, as horrible as she'd been, had never attempted to snuff out. 

They were followed by flashes of faces: young, old, and everything in between; men, and the occasional woman, to whom he would sell his body in payment for a ride to his next destination, once he'd escaped his first (and only) pimps.

Then, Aly, earlier tonight talking about Matthew, and Al's whores:  _ '...I'm sure they'll be happy to help out a certain preacher who's getting sick and tired of playing second fiddle...' _

_ Even if he " _ loves _ " us the way he says he does, he's clearly wanting something more in return and you know full well what it is! _

For his part, Clayton just wanted some rest. Two weeks of little to no sleep were obviously catching up to him and allowing these thoughts to come to the surface more and more. It was impacting his ability to think coherently, and he needed his wits to survive when swimming in the same waters as sharks like Al Swearengen. Hell, he'd needed Matt to point out how to simply talk around the truth - an art he'd perfected over the last decade, dammit!

"I'm so tired." It took a moment for Clayton to realize he'd spoken out loud, and he cursed himself as he watched Matthew's forehead crease with confusion at the statement. ' _ Fuck! Great job, Sharpe. The man says he loves you and all you can say in return is,  _ "I'm tired" _? If he didn't already know he'd chosen a real winner, he does now!' _

The confusion melted into concern, as Matthew stroked his thumbs almost reverently under Clayton's eyes and traced them back down his cheekbones. "You mentioned not sleeping well last night, but it's been longer than that, hasn't it?"

"Mmhmm," Clayton hummed absently in agreement, his whole focus shifting to the feel of those hands stroking his face, before he finally managed to give himself a shake and concentrate on the present, where Matthew was now watching him with a cocked eyebrow. ' _ Oh, okay, fine. In for a penny, I guess. _ ' "I've been having dreams about... _ him _ ...for the past couple weeks."

"Him? You mean--" Matthew's eyes widened in surprised understanding. "Swearengen said the murders have been going on for two weeks..."

"Yeah. I don't think we're dealing with a run-of-the-mill lunatic, Matty."

"So, you think these dreams were meant as a warning? Sent from a Higher power?" Matthew drew out his crucifix, seemingly without conscious thought.

"Or a Lower one." Clayton thought of a certain Dealer and scowled. "Either way, I would really love to punch them, if it didn't seem like so much work right now." To emphasize his point, a jaw-cracking yawn took the opportunity to catch him off guard. "Dammit!"

Matthew gave him a look that was mostly sympathetic, but still held a touch of humor. "On  _ that _ note, I think  _ we _ should head over to the Parsonage and  _ you _ should go straight to bed."

"But the others--"

"I'll fill them in -- exactly as we just discussed, don't worry. I doubt the killer's going to try and strike again tonight, so the case can wait until morning. Now, let's get you to your bed." His tone brooked no argument, as he slung his arm around Clayton's shoulders, holding him close, and led him out of the church and over to the Parsonage.

Aly's words rang through his mind again and he debated making a flirtatious joke about going to Matthew's bed instead, but another yawn stopped that notion in its tracks: unless they'd specifically been paid for it, a whore falling asleep mid-trick was extremely bad for business (not to mention their health) and he doubted it would score many points with Matthew, either. 

No, if he wanted to impress Matthew and convince him he was worth keeping, he needed more than sleep; he needed a good night's rest and he knew that wasn't going to happen until he was sure this murdering asshole, whatever  _ it _ was, was dead. 

Again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter I'm afraid. It's been a long week and the last 48 hours have been particularly stressful, but I wanted to get _something_ out this weekend.
> 
> CW: Some slightly graphic talk about a corpse's wounds (Because Bella), but nothing worse than the autopsy scene in Ep. 3.

Matthew's mother had always said 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,' but he couldn't help being concerned over how compliant Clayton was being with his ministrations.

Usually, the gunslinger was more prickly than a porcupine sitting on a cactus if you tried to assist him in any way that he could possibly interpret as condescending. 

_ "I'm not a child!" _ had been tossed around so many times that they would often say it for him the moment they saw his eyes narrow and jaw tense in a certain way; not that it tended to help the situation any.

Tonight, though, there wasn't a single protest as he helped Clayton remove his boots and jacket, and he didn't complain at all when Matthew put him to bed and sat with him until he drifted off.

These murders were awful in their own right and he'd already decided whoever or  _ what _ ever was committing them needed to be stopped as soon as humanly possible, but he'd be lying if he said Clayton's state of mind wasn't even more of an incentive for him.

Clayton had never really talked about his past between Amos' fall and Clayton's rise, but Aly had hinted at other aliases and Matthew had been sure that each one had its own individual story. He'd never dreamed they'd involve something like  _ this _ , which was probably naive of him, but Clayton's hard-ass mask tended to be very convincing until you got to know him better and saw the vulnerability beneath.

Naive or not, he wasn't stupid. He'd had his own experiences with whores of both sexes when he was younger and he knew it was neither a pleasant nor a safe vocation. The last time he'd decided to make use of such services, the skinny boy had so many bruises and other marks scoring his flesh, and such dead eyes, that Matthew (or Danny, as he was called at the time) lost all desire for more than simply getting the kid away from his pimp, feeding him up, and giving him some pointers on self-defense. He probably would've adopted the kid if he hadn't been on the run himself.

Clayton had probably not fared much better than that boy and it nearly broke Matthew's heart to think about.

The sound of voices in the mudroom alerted him to the arrival of their friends and he hurried down to meet them as they entered the sitting room.

"Hello, Reverend. How's Mr. Sharpe?" Miriam gave him an assessing look.

"He's asleep, Ms. Miriam. Apparently, his sleepless nights have been going on longer than he wanted us to know. I'll explain everything in a bit." His words seemed to mollify her for the time being, but he noticed her shooting a concerned look towards the upper floor as she turned to remove her shawl. "What kept you all? I expected you to arrive right after us."

"I had to write up some telegrams for Johnny to run to the office in the morning," Aly said. "Wanted to check in with some contacts to see if this kind of thing has been happening anywhere else. Then Bella was feeling ghoulish--"

"I was  _ not _ being ghoulish, I was being _scientific._ " Arabella stuck her nose in the air at Aly. "Looking at the corpse while it was still fresh allowed me to determine the relative expertise of the murderer and possibly narrow down our list of suspects."

"We don't  _ have _ any suspects."

"We will eventually, so isn't it better to be able to narrow them down in advance?" She waited expectantly for Aly to cede to her argument and seemed to take his eye-roll as permission to continue. "Anyway, it was obvious that the poor boy died in a horrific manner. What was interesting was that while the abdominal wound was savage and the viscera mangled in such a way to make it seem amateurish - I mean the way the colon had obviously been torn and--"

"Bella, we really don't need  _ all _ the details." Matthew put his hand over his mouth, praying to the Lord to not give him another viewing of his supper this night.

"Hmm? Oh, right. Sorry, Father." Arabella gave him a contrite look and a sheepish smile, before continuing. "Anyway, that wasn't really the interesting part. What was fascinating was how exact and precise, almost surgical, the removal of the penis had been in comparison. It had obviously been done before the disemboweling, but with enough precision to not allow the victim to bleed out. I mean I have a textbook on surgical procedures that doesn't read so cleanly. The removal of the scrotum in particular--"

"Bella!" Matthew and Aly's combined shout rattled the knickknacks on the fireplace mantel and Matthew was somewhat relieved to notice the usually unflappable bounty hunter was looking nearly as uncomfortable as he was currently feeling.

Arabella gave them each a distinctly disgruntled look, rolled her eyes, muttered  _ "Men!" _ under her breath, and continued, "It means we're most likely looking for someone like a doctor or a butcher; someone with enough knowledge of anatomy that they could remove--" She gave each of them a long, condescending look. " _ Body parts _ without killing the victim prematurely."

"Reverend, are you alright? Would you like me to get you some water?" Miriam stepped closer, putting a supporting hand on his arm. "Bella, you  _ know _ how fragile the Reverend's constitution is when it comes to these types of discussions," she admonished the younger woman.

"I'm fine, Ms. Miriam. Really." Matthew tried to make his smile reassuring, but he could tell from the lines creasing her brow that he didn't succeed. 

Unfortunately, there was no way he could tell her what was really affecting his constitution in this moment: the horrific knowledge that this monster, or one exactly like it, had tried to do this to his Clayton - and had nearly succeeded. The image of the scar just above Clayton's groin would not leave his mind and he doubted his own sleep would be much more restful than Clayton's until they caught the culprit. 

He would be praying in advance for the Lord's forgiveness, because he had no intentions of taking the bastard alive.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be heavily edited in the future, in which case I will make note of it on a later chapter. 
> 
> The joys of trying to work through writer's block.

_ Friday, November 15, 1878 (mid-morning) _

"Then she turned and  **_Wham!_ ** " Aloysius was lost in the excitement of telling his tale and made an exaggerated punching movement that Matthew half expected to take him clear off of his horse's back. "Next thing you know Johnny's splayed out on the ground."

"Well," Bella sniffed, primly. "Perhaps, next time, he'll think twice about speaking of a woman's private activities in mixed company."

Aly guffawed. "They weren't even  _ your _ activities!"

"All the more reason for him to not go telling tales to his employer and co-workers."

"How exactly did he come to believe you were involved in these ' _ activities' _ ?" Matthew turned his attention to Clayton; those were the first words he'd uttered since they left the parsonage and headed out of town.

"Well," Bella began, hesitantly, a slight flush coming over her cheeks that had nothing to do with the crisp morning air. "Gene tends to get...um...a bit loud...and, well, I mean they both do, which is why they usually go back to Jack's place, but...well...Gene gets rather high-pitched when he's...excited."

This time Aloysius did nearly fall out of his saddle as his laughter cut through the morning stillness, ending in a "Whoa!" and a pained grunt as he was forced to use his bad leg to keep from sliding off the side of the horse.

"Aloysius Fogg," Miriam scolded from the back, though Matthew could hear a trace of amusement underlying her words. "This is neither the time nor the place for such ridiculous behavior!"

"Feel free to let me know when the right time for me to fall off my horse might be, Ms. Miriam."

"I'll let you know the next time we're near a cliff of appropriate height, Mr. Fogg."

Matthew hated to interrupt their bickering, as it seemed to be making Clayton relax a bit, but they were getting close to their destination. "Alright, Children, don't make me have to turn this posse around."

Clayton actually laughed out loud, which made Matthew's heart go all fluttery, before turning to him with a wry smile. "Matty, I don't think a group of hired guns working for a  _ pimp _ qualifies as a posse."

* * *

Matthew wasn't sure what he was expecting as they crested the hill marked on their map, but the camp before them was not it.

The first thing to come into view was an old prairie schooner. The wagon's wheels had been removed, but otherwise it looked like any of the covered vehicles Matthew had watched traversing the trails near his childhood home. He could still remember running along the lane, waving at the pioneers making their way westward and wishing he was going with them.

One look at his partner, however, stopped his fond reminiscants in their tracks. Clayton was glaring at the old wagon as though it had paid him a personal insult. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen so much hatred in the younger man's eyes. Not just hatred, but pain...and fear? Before he could be sure of what he was seeing, the familiar mask of Mr. Sharpe suddenly fell into place, leaving only cool detachment.

_ Shit. Not good. _

Matthew forced himself to push his worry for Clayton to the side and turned his attention back to the camp. Beyond the wagon, he could see a group of six tents positioned evenly around three fire pits. They were slightly larger than the tents found in the mining camps, but not by much.

Beyond the tents, there were three moderate-sized log cabins. The central cabin was apparently meant to be a saloon and bore a large, hand-painted sign declaring it "The Nugget" and hanging just a bit off center above the doorway. The cabins to either side had three doors each.

All of the doors on the left-most cabin were currently standing open, as were two on the right; the door that was closed had a red handkerchief tied to the door and an armed man that made Matthew feel small standing at attention beside it.

He pointed the man out to the others as they all grouped together. "Bouncer?"

"Armed security or bodyguard," Aly muttered, thoughtfully.

"You're late," a bored voice intoned and they all jerked their heads toward the wagon, where a young man, no older than sixteen, sat watching them, his chin resting on one hand. "Don't get many ladies out here, so I'm assumin' yer the ones Johnny said would be comin' by. Been waitin' out here for three hours now."

"Sorry, we meant to get an earlier start," Arabella said, sheepishly. It had been well past midnight by the time they'd finished discussing the assignment and Bella had gone home; she'd overslept this morning.

The kid just waved her off. "No big deal. Didn't have anythin' better to do." He glanced toward the cabin, where a man almost as big as the bruiser was standing in the now open doorway, buttoning his shirt and waiting patiently as the guard stepped into the room. The guard emerged a few moments later, nodded and handed something over to the customer, who shook his hand and left without another word. "I'm off limits to Big Bart for another month. Justin drew the short straw this time."

They watched as the guard went back into the room, only to reappear with a bundled up blanket; a limp arm and leg protruded from the folds. He headed toward one of the tents, whistled, and a couple boys emerged and relieved him of his armload, carrying the body back into their tent. The guard didn't spare another look, just turned and headed into the Nugget.

Matthew was dimly aware that his jaw was hanging open at the callous display and could hear Miriam and Bella talking in outraged, concerned tones. Even Aly seemed tense and troubled, nowhere near his usual unflappable self. 

Clayton made no comment, but Matthew noticed his eyes following the path that 'Big Bart' had taken.

"Oh, ya'll are  _ so _ sweet." The boy laughed, drawing their attention back to him. "Morgan wouldn't've given him his collateral back if Justin was dead," he told them matter-of-factly, as though that made everything all right.

" _ 'Collateral?' _ " The disgust in Miriam's voice was palpable. "Exactly what kind of  _ collateral _ is that boy's life worth?"

Apparently the kid was oblivious to her outrage. "Don't know for sure; not my business. Bart's rich, though - ya gotta be to afford one of the rooms; average Joes just get a quickie in the tents."

Bella reached out and put a hand on Miriam's arm, then addressed the boy. "What would've happened if the boy died? Would the sheriff be called or--"

" _ Sheriff _ ? Are you  _ crazy _ ?" The boy laughed again. "Lady, I don't know if you've noticed, but this ain't exactly legal - why do you think we're out here in the boonies just shy of the Injuns' borderline?

"Anyway, Bart's a regular. He might be a big sick bastard who likes dishin' out pain, but he ain't dumb. He knows the rules and 'No permanent damage' is number one. Justin'll be up in a day or two and he's off limits to Bart for two months."

The casual way this  _ child _ discussed being used and abused was making Matthew sick and he could tell the same was true for the women. Aly was harder to read, but Clayton - no,  _ Mr. Sharpe _ \- seemed completely unfazed.

As if to prove his point, Clayton turned to the kid and asked in a calm, dispassionate voice, "Anyway, I assume you were waiting here so you could escort us to whoever's in charge?"

Clayton's no-nonsense demeanor strangely seemed to appeal to the boy and he smiled and jumped out of the wagon. "Yeah, Johnny told Charlie you'd be by this mornin', so he's waitin' in his office in back of the Nugget." He pointed to a hitching post beside the wagon. "You'll need to leave your horses here. They're not allowed inside camp."

As they moved to tie up their mounts, Matthew carefully and surreptitiously placed a hand on Clayton's arm, giving it a squeeze as a reminder to the younger man that he was there for him. Clayton looked down at the hand, then up to Matthew's eyes and the preacher saw the mask crack just a bit, before the eyes hardened once more and he turned to head back to their escort.

As Clayton left, Matthew turned his attention briefly to the others, only to see them talking quietly among themselves, the women shooting disappointed, wary looks in the gunslinger's direction.

Matthew turned away before they could notice him watching and sighed. This assignment just kept getting better and better.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clayton decided he wanted to tell his side of the last chapter.

Clayton had a deep-rooted, instinctive distrust of pimps, Swearengen especially, so he was in no way looking forward to meeting the one who ran this camp for Al. The old prairie schooner's presence wasn't helping any, even though he knew, logically, there were thousands of the old covered wagons around and there was little chance of it being  _ theirs _ .

Seeing that boy carried out after his session with this Bart fellow, while in no way shocking, had only further enforced his distrust and unease. Pimps weren't known for caring for their ' _ assets _ ', but usually they at least take precautions, since a dead whore doesn't bring in any money. The goon at the door hadn't even checked on the kid until the trick was finished; why even bother having him there?

He found himself tracking the sadistic trick's path as he made his exit, fighting the temptation to take the sonuvabitch out here and now, when the kid who was to be their escort began talking about collateral, rules and limits.

He was peripherally aware of his friends' outrage and disgust at the boy's words, but deep down, he could feel that part of him that would always be Thomas becoming increasingly jealous of the setup these kids had here. How many times had he silently cried himself to sleep after a particularly rough trick had left him bruised, bleeding and in pain, only to have the same sonuvabitch allowed back the very next day? There had never been any strict rules, let alone collateral collected to ensure their compliance, and he sure as hell would never have been off limits to a trick for two months.

He tamped down the emotions threatening to overtake him and allowed the mantle of "the Coffin" to envelope him securely and snugly, like a comfortable old blanket hiding and protecting him from the cold, hard world.

He asked the kid to show them to his boss, while making a subtle sign with his left hand as he spoke. Most would not notice or understand the significance of the symbol, but to boys in this profession, it represented a type of kinship and a promise of safety; it said 'We are the same. You can trust me." At least it  _ had _ . It had been more than ten years, after all. Things may have changed in the interim.

Apparently it was still in use, because the boy's demeanor changed in an instant and he jumped out of the wagon, smiling and instructing them to tie their horses up nearby.

As he was tying Malachi to the hitching post, he felt a gentle pressure on his forearm and looked down to see Matthew's hand then up to meet the older man's eyes. Matthew gave him a gentle, reassuring smile that had Amos hopping up and down somewhere in the back of his mind and made Clayton's heart flutter. The Coffin wasn't having any of it, though, and immediately pushed Amos' exuberant glee and Clayton's infatuation back behind his veil of cool aloofness.  _ We can't afford distractions right now. That asshole got us once when we let our guard down. It's not going to happen again. _

He turned away from Matthew and made his way back to the boy, who introduced himself as, "Jakob, but everyone here calls me Jackie." He was vaguely aware of the others following behind as they made their way through the camp, but his attention was focused on their surroundings, searching for any familiar faces or looks of recognition.

All he saw were ghostly reflections of himself at sixteen, seventeen, and a few older faces, all watching them with wary curiosity. He took in each face, wondering which would be the next to die if they failed, and felt his resolve strengthen even more.

He'd bring this asshole down - again - or die trying.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back from the 2020 induced hiatus.
> 
> Afraid there's not much story progression as I'm mainly just trying to get back in the swing of things with this fic
> 
> I can't make any promises for when the next chapter will be out, but the muses are at least talking to me again. 🤠

Charlie Owens was nothing at all like Matthew had expected when they entered the pimp's office.

The man was middle aged, tall (nearly as tall as Matthew himself) and broad, with neatly combed thinning hair. He was nicely dressed, but in a casual way, unlike Swearengen, who dressed to impress and intimidate.

He was obviously displeased with the boy, Jackie, for accompanying them, but unlike Swearengen, he did not shout and cuss; he simply gave the boy a look of deep disapproval and beckoned him closer.

"Jackie," he said, sounding like nothing so much as a displeased grandparent. "I believe I told you to stay in the wagon and call for Morgan when our visitors arrived."

"I know, but--"

"No buts. Haven't we lost enough boys this month? You _must_ be more careful, Jackie."

"They got two ladies with them, Charlie! No murderer's gonna bring a whole posse with them, let alone womenfolk! Anyway..." The boy gave a long look at Clayton, then leaned in and whispered something in the man's ear.

Owens glanced at Clayton, sizing him up and down, then gave a nod and patted the boy on the back. "Very well, but _next time_ ," he looked the boy straight in the eye. "You do as I say. Don't make me have to dig a grave for you, son. I don't think my old heart could take another, hmm?"

"Okay, Charlie." 

"Now, not that I don't trust Morgan's judgement," Owens glanced at the big bodyguard standing quietly in the corner, "but I'd like you to go check on Justin for me. See if there's anything he's going to need that we don't have on hand and report back to me, okay?"

"Yes, sir!" The boy turned to acknowledge them, giving Clayton a grin, then hurried out the door.

As soon as the door closed, Owens focused his attention on them. "So you're the infamous 'Deadwood Five' I've been hearing so much about, hmm? I hear you've managed to impress Swearengen. That's quite a feat, but it doesn't mean shit to me." His eyes hardened. "What matters to me is results.

"I've buried four boys in the last two weeks and Johnny tells me I've a fifth burial ahead of me. I want you lot," he stared at each of them, pointing a finger for emphasis, "to make damn sure I don't have to bury a sixth. I don't know what Swearengen's paying you, but I'll add to it out of my own pocket to see this murdering bastard is the next one in the ground."

"Keep your money," Clayton--or rather Mister Sharpe--said, his voice still cool, but Matthew could see some warmth returning to his cold grey eyes. "I'm sure Swearengen isn't going to be opening his wallet to pay for funerals for a few whores who won't be earning it back for him."

Owens snorted in disgust. "You got that right. Sonuvabitch told me to just cart 'em out to the scrub and let the scavengers have 'em. Like they were nothing but trash to be thrown out and forgotten!" His eyes raked over Clayton from head to foot and back again, stopping to meet Clayton's unwavering gaze with one of his own. "What Jackie told me about you true?"

Clayton nodded once, apparently understanding the cryptic question, even as Matthew swapped confused looks with the others.

Owens glanced at the rest of them, momentarily, before turning his attention back to Clayton and giving him a wry smile. "If it's a secret, I'm afraid you let the wrong one in on it. Jackie's a good boy, but he's a better gossip than my late Aunt Edna. Half the camp probably already knows."

Realization dawned and Matthew wondered when Clayton had possibly had time to let the boy in on his secret; a quick glance at their companions showed they were still currently in the dark, though he wasn't sure how long that would last.

"I'll keep that in mind for the future."

"Anyway," Owens turned his attention back to the group as a whole. "I know what the outside world thinks about boys like mine, but I took this job when Swearengen offered it, because all I saw was just that: boys. Boys with no family who gave a damn about them; boys with no future; boys who were being used and abused for profit, while being treated worse than livestock." His eyes hardened once more and he glanced at Aly, before continuing. "Anyone who says slavery ended with the War is full of shit."

"Wouldn't that make you an overseer?" Bella asked, tartly.

"I don't pretend that my hands are clean, but if I wasn't here, there'd be someone else and at least I know how to use the system against itself and am willing to do so." He stood up and moved to the one tiny window in his office. "Men like Swearengen don't give a shit about anything but their profit margin." He turned to look at them for a moment, giving them a wink. "Fortunately, if you know what you're doing, that profit margin can work in your favor.

"A few well-negotiated deals with the Sioux for cheaper supplies and there's an extra fifty dollars a month that goes straight into my boys' pockets. Need to maintain the rooms for the wealthier clientele? Each boy gets a chance to earn a bit extra and learn a trade in the process. Some sadistic asshole wants to get rough, I may not be able to turn them away, but you better believe there's going to be an extra maintenance fee to cover " _room damage and stain removal_ " and it's going to be waiting on that boy when he's done."

He gave a sad sigh. "It's still a shitty way to live, but I'm doing my best to make things better and give them a chance to leave here with money in their pocket and the possibility of a future ahead of them. Now some asshole has stolen that future from five of my boys." He turned to look directly at Clayton. "Make sure you return the favor."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A bit of gore in a second-hand description of a corpse, which shouldn't be surprising if you've read this far. lol 
> 
> It's brief and nowhere near as bad as the scene in my head was, but if you're terribly squeamish, don't eat while reading to be on the safe side. 😉

"'s this one down here," Morgan grunted as he led them toward the door at the far end of the cabin to the left of The Nugget. Matthew noticed the doors each had a blue handkerchief hanging on them and while the doors were open, the rooms were not unoccupied, because he heard someone clear their throat as they walked past.

"Just a second, I gotta--" the large man began, as they stopped outside the third door, before sighing and craning his neck around the corner of the building. "Jackie, the boss told ya--"

"I know, but Nick already took over lookout and they don't need my help with Justin and the place is a damn ghost town where tricks are concerned. This is the most interestin' thing going on." Their young escort peeked around the edge of the building and Matthew noticed his eyes immediately locking onto Clayton.

Clayton either didn't notice the boy's attention or chose to ignore it as he questioned Morgan. "The kid was working? I thought you monitored your ' _ customers _ '."

"It was after hours--"

Morgan may have intended to say more, but Jackie cut him off with a giggle. "Jimmy workin' the blue rooms? That woulda been a sight to see."

"Jackie!" Morgan growled, before Matthew could question what the kid meant by that, then rapped on the door with one meaty fist. "Go to the Nugget and grab a drink, Hank. No customers in sight and we need the room for a few minutes."

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from inside and a man, somewhere around Clayton's age and more muscular than Morgan, came lumbering out and made his way toward the saloon without a word.

Matthew had to consciously close his mouth and would've felt like an idiot had it not been for the fact that everyone in their party, save Clayton, were in pretty much the same state of shock.

"Y'all are so  _ cute _ ." Jackie wasn't actually laughing at them, but it was clear he was highly amused. Then, in the next instant, he seemed to completely forget about them as his attention shifted back to Clayton once more, as the gunslinger began to move toward the door.

Morgan suddenly reached over, wrapped one large hand completely around the boy's skinny forearm and pulled him over about five feet from the door, before waving a finger in the boy's face. "You stand  _ right here _ until we're done. You hear me? The boss already said he don't want you boys involved in any of this."

"It's not like there's anything for me to see!" Jackie pouted, trying to crane his neck around the large man, most likely trying to catch sight of Clayton once more. ' _ Kid's got it bad. Not that I can blame him. _ '

"Stay!" the big man barked and the boy immediately went still in a way that reminded Matthew too much of Clayton when something suddenly reminded him of his horrific childhood.

The kid seemed to shake it off quickly, so maybe it was simply shock at the outburst more than a fear response, but Matthew made a note to look closer at this Morgan fellow while they were here.

Morgan left Jackie standing where he was and ushered them all into the small room, closing the door behind them.

There wasn't much to see. A four-poster bed took up most of the available space, with a simple coat rack by the door and a rather plain looking rug--' _ Wait, are those  _ shackles _ on the posts? _ ' Matthew instinctively reached for his crucifix.

"Afraid there's not much to see," Morgan muttered. "Swearengen ordered the original mattress and rug to be burned immediately, and sent replacements from the Gem, so we wouldn't risk losing business." He snorted derisively, then pointed towards the foot of the bed. 

"Anyway, the boy, Jimmy, was sprawled there, naked, his legs dangling over the end of the bed, so you couldn't miss seeing his dick was...gone...the moment you walked in the room." Morgan swallowed noticeably, as though he were trying to keep his gorge from rising as he described the scene. "His guts were torn open and his intestines were piled on the old rug, like they'd just been discarded like so much trash." He reached down and pulled up the current rug, so they could see a distinctive discoloration of the wood beneath and it was all Matthew could do to keep his own gorge down.

"When exactly did this happen?" Miriam asked, her face pale.

"All Hallows' Eve." Matthew didn't miss Clayton's flinch at the mention of the date and he noticed three other sets of eyes flicker in the younger man's direction. Morgan, fortunately, missed the fairly subtle (to anyone who didn't know him) reaction. "Jimmy had been playing cards with Jackie and some of the other boys and they said he got up and left to take a piss around 11:30 or so and never returned. They assumed he'd gone to bed."

"Who found the body?" Arabella asked and Matthew realized that at some point she'd acquired a notepad and was quickly jotting down notes.

"I did," Morgan said, flatly. "I check the cabins every mornin' to be sure no one's snuck in during the night to try and land a free fuck. Never expected to find nothin' like that..."

Arabella began to write something down, asking, "Do you stay in the camp or go to town at night?"

"My job's to guard the camp and keep an eye on the boys," Matthew could hear a trace of bitterness underlying his words along with something else...guilt, maybe? "I sleep in that old schooner, so I got a good view of the camp and I'm close at hand if someone needs me."

"Hm." Arabella kept writing and the scratching was starting to get on Matthew's nerves. "And the boy, Jimmy, was he gagged when you found him? Was there any sign of something being used to keep him quiet?"

"Not that I saw."

"So, a boy was tortured, gutted, and no one in camp heard a thing?" Miriam asked, incredulously.

"Did you find any alcohol - or smell any?" Clayton asked quietly, but you'd have thought he'd shouted the way all heads turned toward him.

"Yeah, the room stank of it, along with...well...other stuff."

"And the others?"

"Come to think of it, yeah. At least the other two that happened in camp. Not sure about the two found closer to town."

"I didn't notice a particularly strong alcohol scent on the one we examined, but he'd been lying outside for God only knows how long, so the scent may have faded," Arabella muttered, making more notes.

"I've heard enough," Clayton muttered, then, before she could do more than utter a startled, "Hey!" had grabbed Arabella's notepad and pencil out of her hands, plopped himself down on the side of the bed, and turned to a blank sheet of paper.

Arabella took an affronted step forward, as though to take the pad back, but Matthew quickly reached out and took her arm. "Wait," he told her, urgently, having a sinking suspicion of what it was Clayton was doing.

Matthew was proven right a few long minutes later, when Clayton abruptly stood, pushed the paper into his hand, and left the room with a muttered, "See if any of the boys recognize that."

Matthew looked down at a rough, but well-drawn, sketch of a middle-aged man with balding hair, a long pinched face, and the most wicked eyes he had ever seen.


	12. Chapter 12

Clayton pushed the drawing into Matthew's hand and hurried for the door. He had to get out of this room; he could feel the walls closing in around him and his heart seemed to have lodged in his throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Every fibre of his being was telling him it had to be the same guy. What little information that made its way into the news following the previous murders had never mentioned the guy plying his victims with alcohol.

How could it be  _ him _ , though? Clayton - or rather, Thomas - had put a bullet straight between his eyes. He had watched Doc saw his head off and toss it in the river.

' _ Well, we did fight Wild Bill after he'd been dead for 2 years, _ ' he tried to reason with himself, as he rushed out of the building, barely noticing as he brushed against someone on the way. "Sorry," he muttered absently, but kept going without looking back.

' _ Wild Bill still had a  _ head _! _ ' Thomas screeched from somewhere deep down. ' _ Even the stupidest whore's going to notice if a trick doesn't have a head! _ '

' _ Quiet! _ ' Sharpe was trying to assert control once more, but Clayton could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears and the pounding of his heart.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, but was most likely only a couple minutes, he stumbled to his destination and leaned his head against Malachi's jet black neck, wrapping his hands in the coarse mane, and tried to just breathe.

As always, the horse seemed to understand what he needed, craning his head around and nuzzling Clayton as best he could while tied to the hitching post.

Gradually, Clayton's heart stopped hammering in his chest and he could feel his mind clearing somewhat. He gave the horse a few thankful pats, as he began to force himself to breathe deep and slow. 

"Thank you, Kai," the words seemed to slip out of their own volition and not for the first time, he wondered if there was a reason this horse had found its way to him. Granted, Aly was a fine judge of horseflesh, but even he would have no way of knowing what a comfort this horse would turn out to be.

At the thought of Aloysius, his heart began to speed up once more, remembering the older man's cruel jibe about Matthew ' _ getting sick and tired of playing second fiddle to a fucking horse! _ '

He knew he still had to do something about his relationship with the Preacher. Hell, Matthew would probably be upset he came to Malachi instead of him for comfort, but that would require talking and he didn't want to talk right now; he  _ couldn't _ talk about this right now! He felt like he was going insane, because this  _ shouldn't _ be possible - how do you even begin to talk about something like this without sounding like you need to be sent straight to a madhouse?

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by an insistent nudge and a series of low nickers, and he gasped in a breath, not realizing that he'd stopped altogether at some point. The gasp turned into a wry chuckle and he placed a kiss on the horse's nose and scratched behind his ear. "Thanks again, boy."

"You okay, Mister?"

Clayton turned to see the boy, Jackie, standing a couple feet away, watching him with apparent concern, his hand absently rubbing his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine, Jackie. Did I do that?" He nodded towards the boy's shoulder, as he remembered bumping into someone earlier.

"Huh?" the boy asked, then laughed. "Oh, it's nothin', just a bump. I shouldn't have been tryin' to eavesdrop. Boy howdy, you move quick and quiet!" He gave Clayton an impressed grin.

"Still, I should've been looking where I was going. Sorry."

Jackie waved off the apology. "It's not a problem, really. Besides, if you don't mind me sayin', ya looked pretty spooked comin' out of there." He looked around. "Must be hard comin' here and seein' all this after you've managed to move on and make somethin' of yerself. I think it would really mess with someone's head even without all the murderin'." He glanced back at Clayton, shrewdly. "Those other folk with ya don't know, do they?"

"One does." Clayton shrugged.

"The Preacher?" The boy laughed at Clayton's startled look. "People supposed to confess stuff like that to preachers, ain't they? Anyway, he kept throwin' ya worried looks the whole time since ya got here, so I figured he must know somethin'."

"He's good at that. Worryin'."

The boy nodded, then looked back at camp. "Anyway, right after you left, I heard Morgan talkin' to your friends about seein' where Marty was found and then talkin' to some of the other boys in camp afterwards, so I figure they're gonna be at least another hour or so." He paused a moment, biting his lip, before asking, rather shyly. "Yer horse is awful nice and I can understand if you'd rather stay with him, but there's this place out behind the camp that I go to when I wanna be alone. It's real pretty and peaceful. I could show ya if ya like."

"I don't--"

"I won't bother ya, promise! No matter what Charlie and Morgan say, I  _ can _ keep my mouth shut more than a minute..." He seemed to realize how much talking he was doing and immediately clamped his mouth shut, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

Clayton studied the boy for a long moment, remembering his time riding the sheets and how often he had wished for just one person to show him some kindness with no strings attached.

"Okay," he agreed finally, watching the boy's face light up. "I should really let my friends know where I am first..."

"Oh, don't worry. Nick knows yer with me; they'll know where to come lookin'." Jackie waved toward the old prairie schooner, then reached out and took Clayton's hand in both of his, pulling him along. "Yer gonna love this!"

Malachi whinnied as they moved away, seeming to try and shake himself loose to follow. 

Clayton gently pulled his hand free of the boy's grasp and moved back to give the horse a comforting pat. "It's okay, Kai, I'm feeling better now. You just stay here and wait for the others; I'll be back soon." Then he turned back and let the boy lead him out of camp.

*************

He and the boy had been walking in companionable silence for at least fifteen minutes when Jackie reached out once more to take his hand, this time pulling him to a stop. "Ya hear that?"

Clayton listened carefully and could just make out the sound of running water. "Is there a river near here?"

"Nah, just a crick, but it has some pretty little waterfalls and is real soothin'. It marks the boundary of the treaty zone. Cross it and the injuns ain't gonna be happy, but they're nice enough as long as ya stay on this side."

Clayton took the lead, the boy trailing a bit behind him, following the sound of the water until he spotted a break in the brush and a glint of sunlight on water. He started forward, but stopped as he heard a small gasp behind him.

"What's wrong?" He turned back just in time to see something large and dark swinging for his head; there was no time to duck and he was vaguely aware of Sharpe's voice somewhere deep in his mind ranting about letting their guard down just as a rather sturdy tree branch slammed into the side of his head.

The last thing he saw, as darkness took him, was the all too familiar gleam of a pair of wicked eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this part got away from me. I feel like I was trying to write a whole novel rather than a chapter update. Anyone who may still be reading this mess shouldn't get used to it. lol
> 
> Some parts of this will definitely make more sense if you've read 'Hearts Royal'.  
> This chapter technically has some references to my as yet unwritten direct sequel to HR for continuity's sake (I do plan to eventually write the damn thing!), but I don't think they're overt enough to be confusing.
> 
> I believe I've mentioned before that I'm doing my own spin on Deadlands lore, so some things will follow more closely than others (i.e. the Union still won in 1865, but the Sioux Nations still exist, as well as Ravenites and other events surrounding the Reckoning). This also means that I'm in the unfortunate circumstance of casting a certain historical figure I happen to greatly admire in a very dark light in this world (he's only referenced, he doesn't actually appear), so for the history buffs out there, just remember this is the Weird West, not the Wild West. ;)

"I just do not understand your fondness for these...people."

Curly stopped his mental countdown (which had just hit 0) and rolled his eyes. Bear was a good friend, but  _ so _ predictably tedious. Every time Bear was assigned to be his escort and they neared the creek crossing it was the same old argument.

"Look how far they are from the white settlement. Are they not the dregs of their society - well, what  _ passes _ for society with the whites..."

"If you think so little of their society, doesn't it stand to reason that being outside of it must be a good thing?"

Bear scowled and gritted his teeth. "Not necessarily."

"Or are you saying there are varying degrees of good and bad among them, just as--"

"All right! I'm sorry I brought it up!" Bear glared at him. "Did you not get enough of this...contrariness at the council meeting?"

"I am not being contrary. I am simply pointing out that it does us no good to adopt the prejudice and short-sightedness of those who have wronged us."

"I do not believe Sitting Bull was overly impressed with your views."

Curly snorted. "That Ravenite rat can kiss my--"

Bear made such an uncanny hissing sound that Curly thought they should rename him to Snake, sat fully upright on his mount, and began looking around for eavesdroppers (even though the ancient tongue they were speaking wasn't likely to be known by anyone in the area), before turning back with wide eyes. "That is a  _ serious _ accusation and not something to be throwing around lightly."

"It's not an accusation, it's a fact. Ravenites have a certain stink to them and it covers him like a blanket."

"Well, if anyone would know, I suppose it would be you," Bear said, thoughtfully, then looked over sharply. "You don't think he knows?"

Curly shook his head. "Hawk and Horse had their own misgivings long before I actually met the traitor face-to-face." He grinned, wolfishly. "I'm told his attempts to hide his displeasure at our adoption of Little Bird may have resulted in a few burst blood vessels."

"Ra--" Bear started, but caught himself even as Curly threw him a hard look. " _ Curly _ , Ravenite or not, the man has the backing of the tribe. Do  _ not _ \--"

There was a sharp whistle to their right and they looked up to see one of the border guards waving to them from a distant thicket and Curly realized they were already within mere feet of the creek. ' _ Apparently, it's hard to hear a brook's babbling over your own. _ '

Bear drew his mount to a stop as Curly's took its first step into the shallow crossing. "Are you sure you don't want me to ride with you, at least as far as this... _ camp _ ."

Curly laughed. "You ask me this every time and I've always returned safely, have I not, old friend?"

"So far, but you are far too trusting of these people. Especially that Charlie--" Bear stopped and stared at something across the way. "What is that?"

Curly turned his attention to the spot his friend seemed to be staring at and it took him a moment to realize what he was seeing: a body lying just to the side of the track that led to the other side of the crossing.

He let out a sharp whistle, identical to the one that they'd heard just moments earlier, and waited for the same guard to step into sight. Once he and the guard could see one another, he began signing to ask him what had happened across the way, but the guard didn't seem to know there was an issue. 

' _ Of course not. They watch this side for interlopers, not that side. Dammit. _ ' He urged his horse forward, much to Bear's dismay.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm a medicine man, what do you  _ think _ I'm doing?"

"What if it's a trap?"

"Then it's a trap."

"You stubborn, idiotic..." The sound of splashing told Curly that Bear had begun crossing, as well. "Hold on! At least let me go first, you old fool!"

Curly reluctantly slowed his pace just enough for his friend to take the lead. His healer's instinct told him to get to the person as quickly as possible, but common sense said he would be of no use to anyone if he did fall victim to an ambush. He was peripherally aware of their guards moving from their previous positions to more advantageous sites, prepared to provide backup if necessary, bows drawn and ready.

Bear reached the other side, his shield at the ready and spear drawn, gave a cursory glance at the body, and began checking the nearby foliage for signs of ambushers.

Curly didn't wait to see what his friend found, but immediately jumped from his horse and knelt down beside the prone figure. It was one of the boys from the camp; he'd seen him on several of his visits to Charlie Owens' office.

He bent over the boy and was relieved to find he was still breathing, if a bit shallowly, and his heart was beating, if a bit irregularly. He set about checking for wounds, but could not find anything obvious from the front, but there was some blood pooled at the back of his head.

He was about to turn the boy over when Bear rode back and dismounted. "I don't see anyone close by."

"There's a small pool of blood here, it's possible he fell and hit his head. Here, help me roll him over."

Together, they worked to carefully roll the boy over onto his side, so as to not cause any more damage than whatever had already been done.

They both flinched at the sight of the gaping wound in the boy's neck, near the base of his skull.

"Was he shot?" Bear asked, confusion clear in his voice. "Surely the guards would've heard..."

Curly studied the wound, his mind already turning towards a healing spell, when the edges of the wound caught his attention and he felt nausea rising.

"No. No, he wasn’t,” he gave his friend a grim look and motioned for him to see for himself. “It’s much worse.”

*******************

"Well,  _ that _ was a waste of time," Aly grumbled, as they made their way back to Owens' office.

"Not necessarily," Bella answered distractedly, as she scanned over the notes she'd been taking. Miriam had grabbed her friend's elbow and was helping to guide her, so she didn't trip and land nose-first in her notebook. "Just because no one recognized Clayton's suspect, doesn't mean he isn't lurking around and only showing himself to his victims. Even if we eliminate him entirely, at least it's one less distraction and maybe Clayton can get his head back in the game."

Matthew had begun to breathe easier after the last boy denied having ever seen the man in Clayton's drawing, thinking that they  _ had _ eliminated the guy as a suspect, but now that Bella brought up the possibility of the killer lurking in shadows, unseen and stalking like some evil cougar, his heart sped up and he began to feel nauseated. Without being consciously aware of it, he began to move faster towards the office, hoping to find Clayton sharing a drink with Owens.

He tried not to let the disappointment show on his face when they entered the office and found Charlie Owens by himself.

They quickly filled him in on what they'd worked out regarding all the victims being plied with alcohol and had him take a look at the drawing himself.

"Nope, can't say I've ever seen that fella. Those are some wicked eyes; almost look like they're glowing." He held the paper out for Matthew to take. "How'd your Mr. Sharpe know of this guy?"

"There were some killings in Denver a few years back very much like these. Mr. Sharpe was in the wrong place at the right time and killed the man before he could finish off his last victim, but these killings were so similar, he was afraid the job wasn't as thorough as he'd initially believed."

"Hmm." Owens studied Matthew for a long moment, his eyes briefly flickering to the rest of the group, then nodded, as though putting a puzzle together. Matthew remembered the look he'd shot Clayton after Jackie whispered in his ear. "Well, hopefully, it's not the same man, but in either case, I will not be disappointed if history repeats itself and Mr. Sharpe takes this asshole down as well."

Matthew nodded, though he silently disagreed. He didn't want Clayton anywhere near this guy and would be happy if anyone else got the kill this time. "Speaking of Mr. Sharpe, did he happen to stop back here?"

"No, I haven't seen him since you all left earlier. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. He just needed to step away for a few minutes and I had figured he'd come to get a drink. He probably just decided to go check on his horse." He was aware of Aly muttering something under his breath and Miriam slapping his arm none too gently, but chose to ignore it for the moment. "We're going to head back to town and see if any suspicious characters have been spotted there; we'll be back tonight to keep an eye on things. In the meantime, make sure all the boys know not to accept any drinks from strangers."

They made their leave and headed out of the small saloon. Matthew waited for Aly, who was bringing up the rear, to step out and shut the door behind him, then moved forward and put a hand on the older man's chest, preventing him from moving.

"What exactly did you say about Clayton back there?" he asked, letting just a bit of warning creep into his voice.

Aloysius rolled his eyes. "I just said it figures the first place you'd think to look for him was with that damn horse."

Matthew furrowed his brow in confusion. "You bought him 'that damn horse,' or have you forgotten?"

Aly snorted. "I bought the horse, because it was a damn fine piece of horseflesh and I thought it would make a good mount. I didn't expect him to use it to turn you into a cuckold."

Matthew saw red. Immediately, his 'gentle, bumbling preacher' persona melted away and Daniel Matthews, career soldier and killer, stepped to the fore, backing Aloysius up against the door and bringing his full height and weight to bear on the smaller man. "I don't find that kind of talk amusing, Fogg.

"That horse represents the first true stability Clayton has known in almost a decade-and-a-half. It gives him someone to talk things out with that he doesn't yet feel comfortable talking to me about, because that horse will never judge him and loves him unconditionally, with no perceived strings attached. 

"It has  _ helped _ him learn to trust and be more open with me and if you have said  _ anything _ like this to him that makes him doubt himself or  _ us _ , I swear to God, Aloysius Fogg, I will not only 'not spare the rod,' I will beat you into next Tuesday!"

Without another word, or glance toward the ladies, Matthew spun on his heels and headed back towards the camp entrance, trying to get his fury under control. It didn't take long, as he was soon able to see the horses were unattended and worry began to settle in his gut once more. ' _ Where the blazes are you? _ '

He heard the others hurrying to catch up, even as he spotted movement in the old prairie schooner where they'd first met Jackie. 

"Hey!" he shouted, waving, and a young man poked his head out. "Have you seen our friend - that's his black mustang, there," Matthew asked when they got a bit closer. "Dark hair, well-dressed, with a black hat?"

"Yeah, I saw him. He and Jackie went off into the woods together maybe half-an-hour ago." He shrugged. "Think Jackie was gonna show him his favorite spot down by the crick while they waited on ya."

Matthew wasn't sure if that news was a relief or not. "How long's it usually take to get there and back?"

"It's probably a good twenty minutes each way."

"Okay, thanks." Matthew tried to get his heart to slow down its drumming. If they walked straight there and back, it would take them at least another ten minutes to return, so there was no point in panicking yet.

Jackie seemed like a good kid, even if he did appear to have a big crush, and he trusted Clayton implicitly, so he was sure it was just an innocent outing and Clayton would not likely want to stay long. He also doubted the killer would strike while they were together. Lone kills seemed to be his specialty.

"Half-an-hour," he said, turning to the others. "We'll give them half-an-hour to get back, then we go looking for them."

"Don't worry, Sugar," Miriam said, reaching out and giving his hand a squeeze. "This guy's too much of a coward to strike two at once, and Mr. Sharpe is more than capable of taking care of himself and Jackie, as well. I'm sure he'll be strolling in here any minute."

*******************

Clayton felt as though he were floating as consciousness returned. He was vaguely aware of the sound of footfalls and dry leaves crunching and a sense of movement. Was he being carried? What was going-- flashes of memory: walking through the woods with Jackie, the sound of water running, a gasp and then  _ his _ eyes--

No, wait, they were familiar and that wicked gleam was there, but they were a different color; lower to the ground, as though the person were shorter.

Younger.

' _ Jackie? _ '

**_So, you're awake._ ** The voice, strange, yet eerily familiar, seemed to drift to him from every direction and no direction at the same time.  **_You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment. You're not escaping me this time, boy._ **

Clayton opened his eyes, only to find they were already open. 

He was walking along the trail they'd followed, and he somehow knew he was heading back to camp, but he was not in control of his body's movements.

**_I told you you were mine, boy. Your friends and that damn Old One should never have interfered._ **

Memories of another time, lost in darkness with the feeling of fangs and claws tearing into him, washed over him, the pain as bad as it had been then and he felt himself scream, though his mouth never moved.

**_That's just the beginning, boy. You have so many deliciously painful memories, I can't wait to taste your fear and anguish as we explore them all._ **

' _ How? How are you here? They said--? _ '

**_They said they sent me back to the Deadlands. That's true enough. My masters were very disappointed in my failure to claim you and planned to destroy me, but your ancient friends provided my salvation._ **

**_When they fought me, they chased me through many timelines, both past and present, and everywhere we fought, we left small parts of ourselves that linger there still, providing a breadcrumb trail of sorts._ **

**_My masters followed that trail to a place where it closely intersected with your life's thread: a killer of whores, who provided an opportunity to change the timeline's course. He had the choice of two victims, but originally chose the other. My masters sent me there, in this new limited form_ ** (Clayton felt something wriggle at the base of his skull)  **_and I found the killer as he slept, took over his ability to choose, and changed the course, but it wasn't enough._ **

A sharp, stabbing pain began pulsing through him, causing him to scream once more.

**_You and that damn doctor ruined everything! I managed to wriggle my way in enough to stop him from slicing my new form in half, but then I was lost to the river for weeks and my masters decreed I will never return to my true form._ **

**_So, I had nothing to lose, but everything to gain. I vowed I would still find a way to have you, but had no idea how to find you in this new timeline. I knew, though, that you would eventually find your way here to Deadwood and I knew just how to lure you into a trap._ **

' _ These killings. They were-- _ '

**_All for you. All your fault. If you'd just lain down and died like a good dog, none of these boys would have suffered._ **

**_Still, I can't complain. You're a much better toy alive and suffering than bleeding out for that unimaginative idiot in Denver._ **

**_Now, let's go see what kind of fun we can have with your friends._ **

********************

"Braincrawlers? Here?" Bear asked, horrified.

"Should've known it was only a matter of time until they started working their way east. Damn Reckoning," Curly muttered, as he stood, wiping his hands on his pants. "Hand him to me, I'm going to warn the camp," he said, as he hurried to mount his horse. His friend didn't argue and by the time Curly was mounted, the boy was being lifted into his arms. "Get back and warn the tribe. Make sure everyone sleeps in shifts until we're sure there's not more of these pests."

"Curly," Bear looked up at him nervously. "If it was in the camp, there may not be much left and we have no idea where it is now... or  _ who _ it might be."

"These things aren't known for their subtlety, Bear. I'm sure I'll know it if I come across it and I know its weaknesses." He patted the small flask on his hip. "Make sure to tell the lookouts what's going on and tell them if anyone acting oddly tries to breach the border to be cautious and take what actions they feel necessary to protect themselves and the tribe, but avoid killing if at all possible. The host can be saved if we get to them in time."

Bear snorted. "The body maybe, but you know as well as I do what these things can do to the mind."

"The sooner we find it, the less damage it can do," Curly said, grimly, and turned his horse towards the shortest route to the camp.


End file.
